de Courtney suggested. ‘Or perhaps a toad?’ Raoul was examining a stoppered glass jar filled with cloudy liquid, his expression finely balanced between intense curiosity and disgust. Daylight was squeezing past a frill of cobwebs hanging in the lancet window. Holding the jar to the light, Raoul eyed the contents. ‘Mon Dieu!’ He dropped the jar on to the table with a thump that sent up a haze of dust. His lip curled, disgust had won out over curiosity. ‘Holy hell, Luc, haven’t you seen enough? Let’s get out of here.’
Lucien scrubbed at his face, fingers lingering for a moment on the ragged scar on his left temple. The scar was throbbing, as it had been since he had learned of Morwenna’s untimely death, as it always did when he thought of her. ‘My apologies, Raoul, I thought I might find something here, some explanation as to why Morwenna died. Did I tell you I had to bribe Father Thomas before he would permit her to be buried in the graveyard?’
Raoul shook his head, his eyes were sympathetic. ‘I heard that rumours of witchcraft were doing the rounds. Who started them this time, any idea?’
‘No. I had hoped to find answers here but …’ Lucien shook his head. A wave of regret swept through him—if only things could have turned out differently. He hadn’t seen Morwenna in what—two years?—and now she was gone. Guilt clawed his insides; regret was bitter in his mouth. He jerked his head at the table. ‘Despite all you see here, she was no witch.’
‘I know that.’
‘She was just … she was obsessed.’ Lucien dragged in air. The place smelt musty. It smelt of death. It was as though time had stopped at the top of the east tower—everything was frozen at the point of dissolution. ‘Morwenna wasn’t obsessed in the early days …’
‘She was beautiful then?’
‘A goddess. Raoul, if you could have seen her before we married …’
‘I know you don’t hold with witchcraft, Luc, but it strikes me she bewitched you.’
Lucien’s laugh was curt. ‘I was fifteen.’ He stared at the glass jar on the table and grimaced. ‘Many young men are bewitched at that age. You, I seem to recall—’
Raoul held up his hand. ‘Point taken. There’s no need to drag my past into this.’ He eyed a mouldering heap of chestnuts and shuddered. ‘For God’s sake, you’ll learn nothing here. My advice to you is to burn everything in this room. It wouldn’t do for Lady Isobel to see it.’
‘There’s no rush,’ Lucien said. ‘Lady Isobel’s not due for another month.’
‘Ah, Luc … about that …’ Raoul’s nostrils flared. ‘Never mind, I’ll tell you outside.’
‘My priorities are the hall and bedchambers,’ Lucien said, reviewing all that needed to be done before his betrothed arrived. ‘Then there are the stables …’
‘Don’t forget the kitchens,’ Raoul put in. ‘Let’s go, the air in here is fetid. Burn all this, that’s what I say.’
Lucien shook his head. ‘Not until I have reassured myself that Morwenna’s death was no accident.’
‘It was an accident, Arthur was clear on that. Luc, it might be better if you accept that sometimes there are no answers. Search through this tower all you like, but you’ll find nothing more substantial than Morwenna’s dreams.’ Raoul reached for the door latch. ‘As you say, there’s plenty to get your teeth into elsewhere.’
Lucien nodded, Raoul was in the right. His betrothed, Lady Isobel of Turenne, would be here within the month, and Ravenshold wasn’t fit for a beggar, never mind its future mistress. The armoury and tack room needed restocking; the Great Hall needed scouring from rafters to floor; the stables were infested with rats; the kitchen garden had run to seed; the orchard needed pruning … Lucien hadn’t got as far as the cellars. He shuddered to think what else he would find. Chaos and neglect were everywhere. Domestic duties had not ranked highly among Morwenna’s priorities.
Lucien took a last look round the tower room. His dead wife had called it her workroom. Plaster was peeling from the walls; there was a pile of debris under the table; a broken stool; a curl of yellowing parchment …
‘This is not a happy place.’ Lucien pulled the door shut with a decisive click. ‘Morwenna certainly held on to her dreams. It’s a pity they didn’t extend beyond this chamber.’ It’s a pity they weren’t based on reality.
Raoul was in full retreat, hurrying down the twisting stairs that led to the bailey. After a moment, his voice floated up. ‘Let’s take a turn along the curtain wall, Luc. I need fresh air.’
‘Amen to that, but I’ve yet to inspect the kitchen and cellar.’
‘Check your wine stocks later.’
In the bailey, Lucien was met with a dazzle of autumn sun, and he took a deep, cleansing breath. A momentary diversion would be a relief after the atmosphere of sadness in the tower. Unfortunately the autumn sun revealed more neglect outside. There were cracks in the water troughs. Drifts of leaves in every corner. In the forecourt there were ruts in an area he would swear had been paved on his last visit.
Raoul was talking to Sergeant Gregor up on the walkway, and Lucien climbed the steps to join them. From the top, most of Lucien’s Champagne holdings were visible. He let his eyes slide past the church and village, moving over the tidy vineyards and neat fields beyond. What a blessing that he had given Morwenna no influence beyond the castle. The contrast between the air of desolation within the walls and the orderliness without was marked. In the fields, the crops had recently been harvested and sheep were grazing on the stubble. The grapes had been gathered from the vines.
Rooks were flying round a nearby stand of trees. In the distance, he caught the tell-tale gleam of the sun bouncing off a helmet. A small party of horsemen was approaching on the road from Troyes. It was probably a merchant come in the hope of selling his wares. Resting a shoulder against the cold stone of a merlon, Lucien nodded at Sergeant Gregor as he saluted and returned to his post. Raoul looked very serious. Too serious. Lucien folded his arms and lifted a brow. ‘You’ve something to say?’
Raoul hesitated.
‘Don’t tell me, the smith couldn’t mend your helmet and you want to borrow one of mine for the tournament?’
‘No, that’s not it.’
His stance was guarded enough to give Lucien a prickling of concern. ‘Raoul?’
‘Sergeant Gregor has just confirmed some news from Troyes.’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s here, Luc.’
Lucien felt himself go still. ‘She? Who?’
‘Lady Isobel of Turenne. Your betrothed.’
In a heartbeat, Lucien was back in the shadowy cool of the Abbey at Conques. He was a lad of fifteen, and he was shaking in his boots at the enormity of the lie his father was forcing him to tell. Lady Isobel de Turenne had been eleven, as he recalled. Lucien had been so ashamed, so guilty, that he had barely looked at her. She had been slim. A child. And he had been forced to swear a sacred oath to marry her, an oath he had never been sure he would be able to keep.
‘Isobel? In Troyes?’
